It had all started from a chance encounter. A grateful couple he’d helped to conceive twin boys had rewarded Gold with dinner at Windows on the World atop the North Tower of the World Trade Center, more than two years before that day that changed the world. They were well connected, these people, and during the meal they spotted one of their idols, whom they knew personally, several tables over.
“Oh,” they’d said to Gold, “you must meet our friend Jeremy.”
And when Jeremy Pritkin learned what Gold did for a living, he took an immediate interest.
Gold had to admit that he’d allowed himself to be dazzled by the man. Jeremy was rich, charismatic, possessed of an overpowering personality. To be taken under his wing, to be considered his friend, to be admitted to the inner sanctum that was that massive brownstone on East Seventieth Street, left Gold spellbound.
When he was behind those doors, it was like being admitted to one’s own private Playboy Club. Dear God, the people Gold met there. Mayors and governors and movie stars. Even the odd royal! About twentieth in line to the throne, but so what?
And of course, there were the girls.
As it turned out, Martin Gold and Jeremy Pritkin had similar tastes. They liked girls on the young side. Oh, they weren’t pedophiles, for God’s sake. Nothing like that. These were not children. These were girls coming into womanhood. Lots of respected, famous men fancied women much younger than themselves. Even a president, for crying out loud. And from everything Gold could tell, these girls—no, let’s be clear about this, these young women—were treated well by his host. From what he’d heard, they were well paid as hostesses, and pretty much guaranteed some sort of future role in the Pritkin organization.
Jeremy had made that very clear to him.
Jeremy was, let’s face it, a big talker. He had a pretty grand impression of himself, and not without reason. He’d already made billions in the business world—this was before he’d sold his company—and as a result of his generous donations to museums and theaters and the like, he was a darling of the arts world. He backed politicians. He was a go-to guest for political talk shows.
Was it little wonder he thought highly of himself? In fact, he confided to Gold one day that he was of superior genetic stock. A kind of superman.
“How do you mean?” asked Gold. He thought, initially, that Jeremy was just kidding around.
“I really need to explain?” Jeremy replied.
At Gold’s encouragement, he listed the reasons. He was, first of all, an above-average physical specimen. He was fit, he had never been sick a day in his life, and he was, by societal standards, exceedingly handsome. But then you added in his astounding intellect, his ability to comprehend complicated issues that left most people perplexed. His IQ was reportedly 179, and as everyone knew, anything over 160 was considered genius. So Jeremy was “genius plus.” He’d put his significant skills to work in the business world.
You put it all together, and he was as close as someone could be to a superman without donning tights and a cape, flying out the window, and letting bullets bounce off his chest.
Jeremy had gone on to say (“Just between us, you understand”) that his voracious sexual appetite and his interest in women—especially younger ones who were, as he described them, “prime breeders”—was nature’s way of urging him to procreate.
“It is, in effect, a force beyond my control,” he had said. “Mother Nature wants me to spread my seed. I am among a select few who have been chosen to better the human race. It’s imperative that I propagate.”
It was, in short, his destiny.
By this point, Gold realized his host was serious. He believed the shit he was saying.
“You’re a good-looking guy, there’s no doubt about it, a regular Marlboro Man,” Gold said, adding a small, nervous laugh.
“I have this idea I’ve been thinking about for a long time, and you’re just the man who could help me with it,” Jeremy said, putting his arm around Gold’s neck and pulling him in close.
Martin Gold was stunned by what Jeremy would propose.
Jeremy wanted Gold, as an expert in fertility medicine and the director of a clinic, to impregnate several women with Pritkin’s sperm. The files, of course, would have to be doctored to show it was someone else’s donation. It would be a long-term experiment. Jeremy’s people would keep tabs on these offspring as they matured to see whether they inherited any of his greatness. Much would depend, of course, on the recipients of his donation. Jeremy stressed that any woman who received his sperm would have to be above average, too. Healthy, attractive, intelligent. While he understood it would be difficult to find female recipients as remarkable as he was, Gold would have to do his best. Pritkin wanted to be clear that there were plenty of women happy to sleep with him, but not necessarily on board with having a child with him. Besides, Pritkin didn’t want the responsibility. What he wanted needed to be done in a scientific, clinical way.
And really, Jeremy argued, what difference did it make if his sperm was substituted for someone else’s? The women didn’t know, really, what they were getting anyway. They chose from a profile without actually knowing who the person was. And Jeremy’s profile would undoubtedly be superior to any other they might receive.
The man was crazy.
“No,” Gold said.
“I’m sorry?”
“No. No. No. No. I can’t make it any clearer. That violates more ethical standards than I can count. No, I’m sorry, Jeremy, it’s out of the question. I’m sorry. Look, I like you. You’re a wonderful guy, and maybe, maybe you’re right. You’re as perfect a human being as there could be. You’re Paul Newman and Albert Einstein and Warren Buffett all rolled into one. But what you’re asking, that’s simply not possible.”
Jeremy was unable to hide his disappointment. He took his arm from around the doctor’s neck. “Oh, Martin, I had such faith in you. I was sure you’d be able to do this for me.”
“Jeremy, if there was anything else, believe me, I would do it. But not this.”
Jeremy shook his head sadly. “This is not what I wanted to hear from you.”
Gold had not known what to say. He definitely wasn’t going to suggest he try some other doctor. No doctor should be involved in anything like this. Jeremy did not believe basic societal rules applied to him. What could you say to a person like that? Gold hated to disappoint him, because knowing this man, having access to this exclusive world, was the best thing that had happened to Gold since he walked the Brooklyn Bridge.
“What’s your wife’s name again?” Jeremy asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your wife. Her name?”
“Elspeth. You met her at that function last year. The museum fundraiser.”
“Lovely woman.”
Gold’s insides started to turn to jelly. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“Jeremy, please.”
“I’m just imagining her reaction when she sees a clip of you with your head between Whitney’s legs.”
And Jeremy smiled.
So there it was.
How many others were similarly compromised? The police chief? The governor? Judges and prosecutors?
Gold wrestled with the request for only a few days before bending to Jeremy’s will. He disposed of a sample provided by one Miles Cookson, but attached his name to the files of nine women implanted with Jeremy’s sperm.
Who could have guessed, back then, that in less than two decades there’d be thriving businesses devoted to testing your DNA and linking you to relatives you never knew you had? And that Jeremy’s sister would send in her DNA sample and be startled to learn there was at least one person out there who was very likely her niece? And that it didn’t make any sense at all.
That was when Jeremy realized the seriousness of his situation.
Those nine grown children out there. Living, breathing evidence of his arrogance and grandiosity. One day, more of them might send samples to WhatsMyStory or some
other DNA service, and be linked back to Jeremy’s sister and, in turn, to him.
Jeremy was apoplectic.
His grand “nature vs. nurture” experiment had to be brought to an end prematurely. All evidence had to be destroyed.
Evidence being, of course, the people themselves.
It wasn’t enough that they be killed. They had to be vanished. DNA could be recovered from a corpse, even years into the future. A body could be exhumed, tested.
Not only that, DNA traces could be left behind. In hairbrushes, on phones, towels, sheets. Two of the best ways to eliminate DNA were bleach and fire. If the residences of these people couldn’t be burned to the ground, then they had to be thoroughly cleaned.
This string of murders would never have happened if Gold had not caved to Jeremy’s outrageous demands two decades earlier.
Gold knew that Jeremy had employed people to monitor his nine biological children over the years. Followed their academic progress, their interests. And, as the years progressed, which colleges, if any, they chose.
Before learning that his sister had sent her DNA to WhatsMyStory, what had distressed Jeremy Pritkin most was how normal these children were.
Oh, sure, some had shown some minimal talent in certain areas. One wanted to be an actress, another a graphic novelist. The one out in Portland was interested in medical research. But where were the child prodigies? The kid who could play Mozart on a piano at the age of four? The youngster who could solve a scrambled Rubik’s Cube in fifteen seconds? The computer geek who could figure out how to hack the Pentagon from his bedroom before puberty?
Normal. Or, to put it another way: disappointing.
It took a little of the sting out of it for Jeremy. In some ways, erasing these children from the face of the Earth was a way to hide his failures.
Or so Jeremy had told Gold.
There was one bridge, in neighboring Mount Vernon, that Gold viewed with special affection. It was by no means the longest bridge in the world, or the highest, and it certainly was not the most beautiful. It was no Golden Gate, and it sure as hell was no Sydney Harbour Bridge.
But he liked it because it reminded him of the bridges he built as a child.
It was the South Fulton Avenue bridge in Mount Vernon that spanned the Metro North Railroad line.
A simple Pratt through-truss bridge, two-lane, slightly more than 150 feet. Long enough to span the four tracks below. Partway across, a set of covered stairs that headed down to the tracks, and signs that read: MOUNT VERNON EAST STATION. TO STAMFORD AND NEW HAVEN, TRACK 4.
Once you crossed the bridge, the road became North Fulton Avenue. It was a dividing line between north and south, an equator of bridges.
Gold knew the history here and was happy to explain it to anyone who wanted to listen. The design for the Pratt bridges, and examples of them were scattered all over the country, came from Caleb and Thomas Pratt, who developed, in 1844, a bridge constructed of wood and diagonal iron rods. It was made up of sections called trusses.
As a boy, Martin lived only a few blocks from here, and he had walked or ridden his bike across this bridge probably a thousand times.
It seemed fitting this would be the one he jumped from.
There was a fence running along the walkways on both sides, but it was not so high as to be insurmountable. Just to be sure, Gold brought along with him a small plastic step stool that he kept in his storage unit for when he needed to bring a box down from the top of a stack.
The 1349 train would be coming into the station at 11:12, from the east, passing under the bridge before it came to a full stop at the platform. Gold figured if he arrived at 11:10, parked his Lexus right on the bridge, grabbed the step stool, and hurriedly bailed from the car, that would give him enough time to leap over the fence and land on the tracks seconds before the train got there. The fall would almost certainly kill him, but in the unlikely event it did not, the train would finish him off.
Gold, always a considerate sort, would leave the key to the Lexus on top of the dash. No sense making the police have to call for a tow, or worse, dig through his pockets once the fall and the train had made a mess of him. He wondered if he should have written a note for Elspeth, explaining why he was ending his life.
No, he thought. Better that she never know.
He held back one block from the bridge, and when his dashboard clock read 11:08, he put the car in Drive and hit the accelerator. There were no vehicles in his path, nothing to stop him from meeting his train on time.
The car rolled onto the bridge. Halfway across, he stopped the car, put it in Park, and killed the engine. He tossed his keys onto the dash, then grabbed the small step stool that was in the footwell of the front passenger seat.
He stepped out onto the bridge, walked around the back of the car to reach the pedestrian walkway on the east side. He peered over the top of the railing.
There it was. The headlight of the approaching train.
His heart hammered as he set the step stool down, got onto it, and gripped the top of the railing. All he had to do to get over was hoist himself up at the same time as he gave a good push with his legs.
The train was almost to the bridge.
It was time.
Grip. Push.
“Hey, whoa, stop it!”
He felt someone grab him around the legs. He glanced over his shoulder, saw a large woman clinging to him. She was dressed somewhat formally, in a pale blue shirt, black pants, and a black suit-like jacket.
“Don’t do it, Dr. Gold!” the woman cried. “Don’t do it!”
How did she know who he was? He’d never seen this woman before in his life.
“Let go!” he said. “Let me go!”
“I gotcha! I gotcha!”
Martin Gold couldn’t get over the railing. The woman had a good fifty pounds on him, he was betting. He’d lost his leverage.
The train rumbled underneath them as it slowed coming into the station stop. It was now immediately west of the bridge.
The moment was gone.
He stumbled off the plastic step, lost his balance, and hit the walkway. The woman knelt over him, straddling him. She was doing more than just trying to help him. She was keeping him from getting away.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “Charise is going to take good care of you.”
And that was when Gold noticed someone else on the bridge. Running this way. This person he recognized.
Miles Cookson.
Shit, Gold thought. It’s over.
Fifty-Seven
New Haven, CT
Gilbert and Samantha stood at her second-floor bedroom window, peering down from behind the curtain, wondering what Caroline might do next. She stood in the middle of the yard, looking up, aware that they were watching her.
“I’m sorry!” she shouted. “I’m sorry about everything!”
Earlier, she had only been crying. Now she was sobbing.
“Please let me in! I did it all for you!”
The locksmith had left only moments before Caroline dared return home with a story that would satisfactorily explain her actions. The code for the security system, mounted on the exterior door handle—and which, if entered correctly, not only unlocked the door but turned off the alarm—had also been changed.
“Maybe we should let her in,” Samantha said.
“No,” said her father.
“We can’t let her stand in the yard all night.”
“Yes,” Gilbert said. “We can.”
Gilbert had also canceled all their credit cards, except for his Cookson Tech card, to which Caroline did not have access.
Caroline, at one point, had gone around to the back of the house and attempted to gain entry through the sliding-glass doors that led into the kitchen, but Gilbert had made sure those were locked, too. She’d picked up one of the metal deck chairs and thrown it at the glass, but without enough force to crack it.
So she had gone back to the front yard, hopin
g that expressions of contrition would do the trick.
“I’m sorry!” she shouted again, figuring her family would hear her even if she couldn’t see them. “I was trying to do the right thing! I was trying to help us! Gil, please go to the front door! You don’t have to open it. I just want to talk to you.”
So he went downstairs and positioned himself by the door. Caroline, on the other side, was whimpering.
“I was trying to get justice for you,” she said.
“No, you weren’t,” Gilbert said.
“It’s true. It is. I told Samantha it was all for you.”
“Go away, Caroline. Don’t come back.”
“I’ll talk to Miles. I’ll make it all better.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Now, no words. Only crying.
Gilbert, exhausted, put his forehead to the door. “You need help,” he said.
More crying, sniffling.
“You need to talk to somebody,” Gilbert said. “Maybe … that would help. You need to figure out why you do the things you do. If you really want to do the right thing for this family, that would be a place to start.”
Still nothing from the other side of the door. The whimpering had ceased. Gilbert wondered whether she was still there. And then he heard some kind of crash. Glass shattering. Then the whooping of an alarm.
He ran to the living room window.
The windshield of the Porsche Miles had given him had been shattered, caved in. The hood was covered with what looked like topsoil and leaves. The car’s lights were flashing as the alarm continued to wail. Gilbert noticed that one of the planters by the walk up to the front door was missing.
Caroline stood next to the Porsche, brushing her hands together, admiring her handiwork. She turned, slowly, to look back at the house.
Gilbert thought she suddenly looked very calm. Maybe her act of automotive vandalism had served as a kind of release.
Samantha had come downstairs. “Did you see what she did?”
“Yes.”
He saw, at that moment, how pathetic his wife looked. Standing there, tear lines streaking her cheeks, her makeup smeared, hands covered in dirt, her hair in disarray.
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